


count your corners, cut the rest

by lotts (LottieAnna)



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst, Free Agency, Future Fic, IIHF Ice Hockey World Championships, M/M, Podfic Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2019-05-19 21:34:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14881619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LottieAnna/pseuds/lotts
Summary: “Chin up, we’re at the beginning of our careers, we’ll win plenty more games. Together.”“That a promise?”“Pinky promise.”(Or: it’s been a few years.)





	count your corners, cut the rest

**Author's Note:**

> IF YOU FOUND THIS THROUGH GOOGLING, KNOW ANYONE MENTIONED IN THIS STORY PERSONALLY, OR ARE MENTIONED YOURSELF: please, please click away. This is a work of fiction and nothing written in this story is true. Any accurate information used in this story is publicly available information about public figures, the rest is made up, 100%.
> 
> Thanks to Ali for helping me piece together this future, and brainstorming the events and trades that could have lead to this. Thanks to Julia for helping me build a hypothetical 2023 Worlds roster. Thanks to Rachel for the speedy and thorough beta, despite a busy schedule. Thanks to Ash for cheerleading the fuck out of this, as always. Thanks to Ang for reading this and offering the earliest feedback on it, and thanks to Deja for reading through when this was 90% done and helping me finally finish piecing this story together.
> 
> Today is Tito's birthday, and also National Best Friend Day. So, this goes out to all the best friends I've made in the past year and some I've spent writing fic. I hope you know who you are, and if you think it's you, it probably is.

Tito likes to think he’s got a good sense of things, and that’s how he keeps his head up. He’s a smiley-face-on-the-stick-tape kind of guy, who likes to stay loose, and unguarded, and doesn’t do well when he’s too in his head, or when he’s overthinking things. He grounds himself in optimism, and it tends to work out well for him. 

The key to optimism, Tito has found, is to be realistic about it; you run the risk of naivety and relentless false positivity otherwise. Cynicism, in the face of real optimism, doesn’t stand a chance, and just looks childishly negative. Finding the silver linings is about being honest with yourself, and letting go of grudges, and those things aren’t easy to do. 

Mat Barzal, for instance, is a terrible optimist. 

He doesn’t try to be one. Tito thrives on happiness, but Mat’s one of those rare people who finds his fuel in pure drive, the kind of person skeptics strive to be. Mat doesn’t need to be convinced that things are important, just attacks everything with the same targeted intensity, and it’s absolutely captivating, even though Tito’s been watching it for years, and played alongside it for three of them, not to mention the handful of tournaments that have thrown them together every few years since they were teenagers. 

It’s been a while since Tito’s played on Mat’s wing—or anyone’s wing, for that matter—but Tito hasn’t forgotten what it’s like. Playing with Mat Barzal isn’t the kind of thing most people could just forget, probably. 

At least, it’s not the kind of thing Tito could forget. 

But. Trades happen. 

Trades happen to teams that have hungry fanbases and no first overall light at the end of the tunnel. 

Trades happen that make headlines, when it’s clear, at the end of the summer, that you’re not gonna have the kind of big change your franchise needs, because it’s a sports franchise, and even if a gradual change could work, the only way to sell tickets is to reassure fans and players that this year will be your year. 

Trades are heartbreaking, but they’re also exciting; when you’re traded, you feel a new sense of purpose, and you have a new city to love and a new life to build.

Again, Tito is a glass-half-full player, so being traded felt kind of like a call to duty. It sucked in all the ways these things usually suck, but it was also pretty cool, especially when that team did well. There’s a difference between playing in front of a city that loves its team and playing for a team that can’t decide what city it belongs to. 

The nice thing about being an optimist is that Tito hadn’t burned his bridges on his way out. He still keeps in touch with the guys, gets hounded by the media when they play each other, and people compare his “narrative,” or whatever, to other major trades, and— 

It just… it was a big deal, but Tito had grown up changing teams every few years, so really, it hadn’t seemed like this huge heartbreak. Hockey moves you around, uproots your life without warning, and Tito had signed up for that the day he signed his ELC.

The day Tito got the call, he was in Montreal. First, he talked to his agent, and then he told his family, and when he finally had a few seconds to himself, he texted Mat. He’d thought about FaceTiming him, but decided against it. He wouldn’t have known what to say, anyway.

…… 

Hockey Canada doesn’t waste any time calling Tito after they get knocked out in the first round, which is strange, because it’s pretty clear they’re expecting him to say no.

It’s also pretty clear that the team is expecting Tito to say no, and his agent is expecting him to say no, and his family is expecting him to say no, and all the people whose May weddings he’d RSVP’d ‘yes’ to are expecting him to say no. 

Not that any of them know this phone call is happening, but if they did, that’s probably what they would expect. 

For the record, Tito’s had some vague notion of not going to Worlds this summer, because that’s not what you do in free agency, but now that he’s here, being asked— 

Let’s put it this way: Tito also expects himself to say no, but. 

“Yes,” he says. “I’d be honored to be part of the team.” 

“Really,” the GM says on the other end, sounding surprised, and also delighted. “That’s excellent news.”  

And so Tito finds himself, post-round-one knockout, hastily letting everyone know about his change of plans. This means he texts his agent—with a lot of apologetic frowny faces—and calls his parents, mostly to ask if they’re going to want to fly out for Mother’s Day and see some of the tournament. 

Other than that, he figures the news can circulate on its own. 

(And it does.

The thing is, the last time Tito and Mat played together, they’d lost, pretty badly, and Tito had given Mat a pat on the back and said, “Chin up, we’re at the beginning of our careers, we’ll win plenty more games. Together.”

“That a promise?” Mat had said, with the closest thing to a smile that Tito could’ve probably hoped for. 

“Pinky promise,” Tito had said, and Mat had shaken his head fondly and locked his pinky with Tito’s.  

And Tito’s always suspected that Mat remembers it, but he hasn’t had any confirmation of that fact until this very moment. 

_ welcome to the team,  _ the text from Mat reads.  _ you owe me a win.  _

_ is one game okay, or does it have to be the whole tourney?  _ Tito texts back, and there’s a buzzing under his skin, loud enough that it takes a second for it to register that he’s smiling. 

_ what do you think,  _ Mat sends back. 

Tito’s grin widens as he sends an eyeroll emoji, and follows it with,  _ one gold medal, coming right up. _ )

…… 

It’s not that Mat and Tito don’t see each other; it’s just that they’re on teams in different conferences, and spend their offseasons in different places. They have FaceTime, and they talk as often as they can, but it’s not the same as being on the same team, or living together for two years. 

But the thing is, when Tito touches down in Sweden, he’s antsy to see Mat the way he used to be at the end of the summer, back when playing together seemed like more of a guarantee, and he’s not really surprised to find a few texts from Mat letting him know that a group of them are gonna be in his room for “team bonding” purposes, and that Tito should join them when he can. 

Tito’s never been to Sweden before, but he’s been to Ikea, so he’s already got a pretty promising first impression. It’s dark, but the drive from the airport to the hotel is decently pleasant, and Tito probably would even be enjoying it, if he weren’t exhausted from the flight over. 

As it stands, he almost falls asleep in the cab.

Still, when he gets to the hotel, he drops his bags on the bed and doesn’t really think before heading down the hall to Mat’s room. 

He feels weirdly nervous as he knocks on the door, because he’s not sure what to expect, who’s gonna be there and if he’s gonna know how to talk to them, but thankfully, it’s Chabby who opens the door, and Dylan Strome is at his side. 

“Welcome to Stockholm, man,” Dylan says, pulling him in for a bro hug and giving him a friendly pat on the back before walking out into the hallway. Over the years, Tito’s gotten worse at telling if Dylan’s tired or if that’s just what his face is doing at the moment, but he figures exhaustion is a safe bet right now, considering the circumstances. 

“Hey,” Tito says to Chabby, who’s giving him a skeptical look. It’s fair, probably; Tito had left Chabby on read when he’d texted asking why he was coming here, and, like, Tito had left everyone who asked that on read, including his agent, but Chabby probably doesn’t get r-bombed often. 

“Hi,” Chabby says, and then he switches to French. “Dylan’s convinced Marns is fraternizing with the enemy, or something, so he’s heading off to look for him.”

“Marns is married to the enemy,” Tito says. “Wait, the US is still our enemy, right?” 

“Fuck yeah they are,” says a familiar voice from inside the room, and Tito smiles as he hears bedsprings shift and the sound of socks landing on carpet. 

“Hey—” Tito starts to say as he walks into the room, but before he gets a chance, Mat’s launching himself at Tito, in a display of childlike affection that would seem uncharacteristic to anyone who didn’t know him well, but Tito does know him well, and can picture Mat’s smile even though he can’t see it—the big one, that makes his borderline unfairly handsome face look downright dorky. 

It’s a great smile, and Tito wonders if it’s dumb to come all the way to Sweden to see a smile. 

Not that Tito doesn’t have other reasons for being here. 

Just— 

This smile is one of them. 

“Dude, what is up,” Mat says, pulling away, and Tito takes a good look at his face, trying to find signs of aging, but there aren’t any that he can see. Maybe exhaustion, but that’s disappearing by the second. 

“Not much,” Tito says, and Mat scoffs. 

“Bullshit,” he says, and then, to Chabby, “Can you believe this guy? Scores in six straight playoffs games and says it’s ‘not much.’”

“I mean, playoffs were the playoffs,” Tito says, shrugging. “We lost.” 

“I feel that,” Mat says. “I mean, your season was unreal, I get why you wanna keep it going.” 

“I just wanted to keep playing,” Tito says, sitting down on the bed. “How were prelims?” 

“Kicked Germany’s ass,” Chabby says. 

“Davo would be proud,” Tito says. 

“Still?” 

Tito shrugs. “I don’t think it’s as big of a thing anymore, but it was pretty nasty.” 

“What, the gnarly breakup that forced a trade?” Mat says. “I think we all knew that one was bad.” 

“It wasn’t just because of the breakup,” Tito says, even though it wasn’t not because of it, either, he’s pretty sure. 

Mat’s about to say something to that, but before Tito starts to get worried about them launching into a conversation about The Trade, the door opens, and Dylan walks in, Marns in tow. 

“I was right,” Dylan says. “Marns is playing double agent—” 

“I was talking to my  _ husband  _ on the  _ phone,  _ hockey didn’t even come up,” Mitch says. “Also, hi, Beau.” 

“Hey,” Tito says, raising one hand in a tired approximation of a wave.

“Big change from last year, eh?” Mitch says. “Shit sure goes south fast.” 

“What, not satisfied with one cup, Mitchy?” Mat asks. 

It sounds like a joke that lands wrong, but Mitch just shrugs, takes it in stride. 

“I mean, would you be?” 

“He wouldn’t,” Chabby says, before Mat get a chance to answer, and Tito suddenly wonders what the conversation had been like before he arrived, because he’s pretty sure the tension in the room isn’t exactly new. Things always get weird when Mat and Marns are in the same place, even though neither of them will admit to anything even remotely resembling anger. 

Still. There are only so many times a conversation can drift into uncomfortable territory before Tito decides it’s not worth being a part of it anymore, and right now, he’s tired enough that his limit is two. 

“Man,” Tito says, standing up. “Jet lag’s a bitch.” 

“You’re going?” Mat says, frowning. “You just got here, dude. Stay and catch up.” 

“Nah, I’m wiped,” Tito says. 

“We won’t draw on your face if you fall asleep here,” Mat says. 

“Speak for yourself,” Chabby says, wry, and Tito silently thanks him for the assist. 

“You heard the man, I’m not safe,” Tito says. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow, eh?” 

“You sure?” Mat says, and Tito hates that it makes him reconsider leaving, for a second, even though Mat’s probably not even expecting it to work. 

“We have the rest of the tournament for team bonding,” Tito says. “Night, everyone.” 

There’s a chorus of goodbyes, and then Tito walks out, trying to avoid Mat’s eyes just in case. 

…… 

It’s not that Mat and Tito don’t talk; it’s just that there are a lot of things they don’t talk about.

Like. The fact that after Tito got traded, they didn’t talk for a few months, and it was a pointed silence, purposeful, painful.

Optimism can only do so much. 

…… 

They waste no time putting Tito back on Mat’s wing, and Tito wastes no time feeling at home there, just like he had halfway through their first season together. Ebs isn’t here this time around, but the chemistry is there like it had never left.

Three years not playing together hasn’t changed much; Mat’s still Mat, but even better, better at communicating, less cute, less fancy; Tito’s still Tito, but with more power, more confidence, more skill. 

Mat’s game has probably matured more than Mat himself, honestly. There’s no real visible difference in the way he looks, besides the fact that he’s stopped letting his hair get grossly long before cutting it, but his game has aged years. 

The spinorama that had been the bane of coaches’ and opponents’ existences alike, back in the day, is sharper now. His footwork is beautiful as ever, but there’s less panic in his skates. He’s always been stupidly relentless, but there’s no ceiling on that when it’s your job to be, and he’s gotten so much smarter, and so much better at reading other players, at reading Tito in particular. 

And it’s… weird, honestly, because a part of Tito was thinking—not quite hoping, but almost—that the magic would’ve faded. 

He’s as reassured as he is scared by the fact that it hasn’t, though. Or really, what reassures him is that it wasn’t magic that made him and Mat good together.  

“Hey,” Mat says after practice, “for a centre, you’re really good on my wing, you know that?”

“Thanks,” Tito says, trying to keep his voice light. “I’ve got some experience there.”

“How was it?” Mat asks.

“How was what, being on your wing?” 

“Being there again,” Mat says. “Being back.”

“It was okay, I guess,” Tito says. “I forgot what it’s like to have you in my ear all game.” 

“Hey,” Mat says, amused and only slightly legitimately offended, Tito can tell. “I communicate with my linemates.” 

“That’s one way of saying it,” Tito says. “Others would just call it ‘never shutting up.’” 

“Three years on another team didn’t teach you any new chirps, eh?”

“Nothing I can use on you,” Tito says. 

“I guess some things never change,” Mat says, grinning, and then Tito grins back, and it’s like— they’re back at Northwell, and Mat’s still living in the Seidenbergs’ basement, and it’s still the coolest fucking thing in the world that they actually get to play together, that the team is buzzing because of how well they play together. 

And suddenly, things are— giddy, and heavy, and just, like, a lot, and Tito feels like he could fly, but also a little like he can’t breathe. 

It’s not a new thing, feeling like this around Mat. 

Really, it’s the farthest thing from a new thing, and if Tito’s being honest with himself, feeling like this around Mat feels like a little bit like coming home. 

“I guess they don’t,” Tito says, breaking the moment on purpose, because this is something big, and scary, and that he’s not going to touch, right now. 

“So,” Mat says. “Seriously. How was it? Playing together after all these years?” 

Three years, Tito decides, is not really as long as it seems, and it’s certainly not as long at the end of those three years as it feels like it will be at the beginning. 

“Like riding a bike,” Tito says, and he looks at his feet as he says it, but he’s grinning. 

“Yeah,” Mat says, dazed and a little soft. 

Tito bites his lip. “It’s— it’s good to be back, with you.”   

“It’s good to have you back,” Mat says. “Y’know. For the tournament, at least.” 

“It’s a long tournament,” Tito says, even though it’s not, really. 

Thankfully, Mat doesn’t point that out. “We’ll make the most of it.” 

“Gold or bust, baby,” Tito says, and then he gives Mat a punch on the arm, and Mat scoffs, the same sound he’s been making since the day Tito met him. 

…… 

Tito had been traded, first and foremost, because Edmonton wanted him. 

Edmonton had asked for him and Bails because they liked their numbers, and because they fit in nicely with the team, down to the contract. 

But also, New York had given him away.

The logical part of Tito knows the fans had been clamoring for a big move, and because they were hungry for better defense, but still. 

Tito had a lease. A house, one he’d lived in for a while, that he really, really liked. He had a favorite coffee place, and a grocery store, and neighbors, and Amazon accounts and bank accounts linked to that address. He had delivery menus and a cable subscription and a thousand other things that he’d had to cancel— 

And he had a roommate, too. 

Not to mention, he had a team. He had  _ friends.  _

He hadn’t lost those friends in the trade, and he’d gained new ones, but still, it’s hard to keep up with people when you spend all your time travelling and playing, and it’s hard to make amends with someone who ghosted you for months then snapped you to let you know he was watching  _ Friends  _ and ‘thinkin of u.’ 

Tito knows that Mat had been hurt by the trade. He can even understand the lack of communication, and he can understand why Mat’s way of apologizing was having them pick up where they left off. 

But it had hurt like hell. 

Maybe Tito’s an optimist, and maybe he’s a forgiving person, but the line between understanding and naivety, sometimes, is recognizing when something stings. 

…… 

It’s sometime into the prelims before Mat brings up free agency. 

Tito’s pretty impressed that he held off that long, honestly. Mat’s nosy, and Tito knows he’s been dancing around the question for a while, probably asking other people before confronting Tito directly about it. Mat strategizes when it comes to gossip; he knows Tito’s been shutting people down when asked about it, and he’s probably been trying to find a workaround. 

Thankfully, Tito is well-aware of Mat’s methods, at this point. so he’s prepared for it when Mat, halfway through some movie neither of them actually wants to be watching, clears his throat and turns down the volume. Tito braces himself for the most sneaky conversational transition, is even prepared to pretend he’s enjoying the movie if he can’t see an easy way to dodge the line of conversation Mat’s going to start that will undoubtedly end with Mat asking Tito which calls he’s gonna be on the lookout for when July 1st rolls around. 

He’s almost disappointed when Mat takes the direct route and says, “I know you haven’t been talking about free agency—” 

“Wow, right to the point,” Tito says. 

“I’ll make it quick, I promise,” Mat says. “I’m not just asking, like, generally— there are a ton of factors, blah blah blah, but— I’ve gotta ask if you’re thinking about New York.” 

Tito bites his lip. “I’m not talking about it.” 

“But that’s not a no,” Mat says. 

“It’s not an answer,” Tito says, and most people would take that for what it is—namely, Tito shutting down the conversation—but of course, Mat Barzal is not most people.

“I can get them to offer you a contract,” Mat says, and that— 

It’s big, and heavy, and unnecessarily romantic, and Tito’s hit with a whole wave of emotions, but the one that’s most striking, and most surprising, is anger. 

Of course Mat can’t just say ‘I want to know where you’re signing’ and be okay with Tito giving a noncommital half-answer. Of course Mat can’t just say ‘I miss you’ and let that be enough. Of course Mat can’t just be happy with  _ missing  _ Tito, because Mat can’t just accept that he’d care about anyone unless they’re someone worth stepping way out of line for. 

It’s really a ridiculous thing to offer, and Tito just— he’s not going to be swept up in someone who dropped him like it was nothing, for  _ months, _ and time can only do so much healing. 

“I’m pretty sure I can get a contract on my own, thanks,” Tito says, and he doesn’t exactly snap, but he says it coolly, and Mat seems to realize he’s hit a nerve. 

“Of course you can,” Mat says, backtracking. “A good one, obviously, you’re unreal, but I just—” 

“If you think you can just offer me a contract as some sort of, like, grand gesture, or whatever—” 

“It’s okay if you don’t want—” 

“Is that why I’m on this team, then? Because you asked for me?” It’s been a minute since Tito’s been on the receiving end of this level of Mat Barzal, but he’s so intense about every fucking thing, and that would be fine, if it didn’t make Tito feel like a  _ thing _ . 

It’s never hurt quite like this before, but, then again, getting traded makes you tired of being moved around on other people’s whims. 

“Jesus christ, this again?” Mat says, rolling his eyes, and, yeah, maybe Tito knows that it’s probably ridiculous to act like Mat Barzal dragged him kicking and screaming to Stockholm, but the idea that Mat had somehow… like, tricked him into coming here, or that Mat’s influence on Tito’s presence was some sneaky, behind-the-scenes thing— that doesn’t sit right with Tito, and he’s pretty sure it's not a ridiculous worry to have

“Well, it’s not like we’ve exactly exhausted the topic,” Tito says, and this time he actually snaps. “I don’t think one conversation half a decade ago really counts as relentless.” 

“It definitely wasn’t a thing then, and it still isn’t a thing. I don’t think that’s ever been a thing, for anyone.”

“You just offered to get New York to make me a deal—” 

“That’s different,” Mat says. “That’s my team.” 

“Wow, it’s  _ your  _ team—” 

“I meant, compared to this team,” Mat says. “This is like, vacation, but Long Island is home.” 

“You’re Canadian,” Tito says.

“Not that kind of home,” Mat says. “Just— I know my team, okay? I know New York, and— New York needs you.” 

“Does New York need me, or do you?” 

The words come out before Tito can stop them, harsher than they have any right to be, and Mat recoils, like he’s been punched in the gut. 

“Sorry,” Tito says, reaching out, but Mat backs away, so scared it makes Tito’s chest hurt.

“That’s not fair,” Mat says, his voice kind of shaky. “What the fuck, that was a low fucking blow—” 

“I’m sorry,” Tito repeats, trying to sound gentle. 

“What the fuck,” Mat repeats. “How can you just— what makes you think I want you there that badly, anyway?” 

It sounds weak, like an excuse that Mat can’t even be bothered to try to turn into something convincing,  

“I don’t know,” Tito says. “It was a dumb thing to say. It’s… pretty clear you don’t need me.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mat says. 

“Just— you’re still fucking amazing,” Tito says. “Whether I’m on your wing or not—” 

“So are you,” Mat says. 

“So I guess that settles it,” Tito says. “We don’t really need each other.” 

“Yeah,” Mat says. 

There’s a beat, heavy, where the sound of Mat’s breath and the look in his eyes are loud enough to fill the entire room, taking up every inch of space in Tito’s head and his heart and his lungs and underneath his skin, pushing and pulling the blood through his veins in a whirlwind of heat. 

“I didn’t ask Hockey Canada to call you,” Mat says. “They wouldn’t have listened. But the front office back in New York— they’d listen, if I asked. They wouldn’t do it if you weren’t a good fit for the team.” 

“Do you know something you’re not telling me?” Tito asks, because suddenly, he’s starting to see a bigger, more reasonable picture playing out, one that still involves Mat being nosy, but in a way that makes the anger in Tito melt away.

“Maybe,” Mat says. “I just— you’re here.” 

“Observant,” Tito says, wry. 

“Well, if you’re here, you’re not mulling over your options with your agent or trying to prepare to field offers,” Mat says. “And you don’t need to be here to show off or boost your numbers—” 

“I’m here because I wanted to play for Canada,” Tito says. 

“It’s a consolation tournament, it’s hardly the Olympics,” Mat says. “We’re pretty much at the NHL’s version of summer camp.” 

“So what, it doesn’t matter?” 

“Of course it matters,” Mat says. “It’s hockey, we play to win, but— we’re here to  _ play.  _ Not train, not relax, so if you’re here, my guess is that there’s a couple of guys here you want to play with.” 

“And you want to know if it’s you?” 

“It’s not just me,” Mat says. “We all want to know why you’re here.” 

“I’m not here fielding teams for free agency,” Tito says. 

“Fine, then fuck free agency,” Mat says. “Who are you here for?” 

“What makes you think I’m here for someone?” 

“No one just shows up in Stockholm out of the blue without a reason,” Mat says. “And if it’s not about teams, then it’s about players.” 

“Why do you care so much about why I’m here?” Tito says. “I don’t have to tell you the reason behind every decision I make.” 

“But I don’t want to fuck it up if I’m one of the reasons,” Mat says. “I don’t want New York to push for you if you don’t want to be there, or if me being there makes you want it more, or not want it more, just because I want it, so I’m just— I’m  _ asking,  _ okay?” 

“So you want me there,” Tito says, and it’s not surprising, but it kind of knocks the wind out of him, anyway. 

Mat sighs, looks at the ground. “I thought we established that we didn’t need each other to play well.” 

“Wanting isn’t the same as needing,” Tito says, and he doesn’t comment on the fact that he’s pretty sure they’re not talking about hockey anymore, because that’s something he’s not ready to hear out loud.

“What I want is for you to make a choice, and to let me help you make that choice easier,” Mat says. “And just— let me help you.” 

“Why is this something you want to be involved in?” Tito says. 

“Because— because we’re friends, I don’t know. Because we don’t get the opportunity to choose things that often, and this is a big deal.”

“We’re adults,” Tito says. “We choose things all the time.” 

“Dude,” Mat says. “Someone just told you to go and move to fucking Edmonton, and you did.” 

“Because it’s my job,” Tito says. “It’s in my contract that if they tell me to move to Edmonton, I agree to move to Edmonton.”

“But you didn’t choose to play for them,” Mat says. 

“I also didn’t choose to play for New York, and neither did you,” Tito says. 

“You chose to play here,” Mat says. 

“So?” 

“So, you knew I was here, and you chose to come, and I don’t think it’s crazy for me to wonder if maybe that was part of your thinking,” Mat says. “And I just want you to know that if you choose to come back to New York, that’d be—” he gulps. “I’ll make it worth your time. And if that’s something you’re interested in, I’ll let the team know to make it worth your time.” 

“And what if I choose to go somewhere else?” Tito says, because they’re already pushing at the edges of everything Tito doesn’t want to talk about, and he can’t help but keep going, like a scab he can’t stop picking at.

“Then I’ll ask you why,” Mat says. “And maybe wait for my shot at free agency, if we’re being honest.” 

Tito’s first instinct is to call bullshit, because— maybe once upon a time, they were almost that kind of close, but there’s been a trade across thousands of miles and a period of months of silence that left deep cuts on their friendship, and these days, it feels fragile, like they’re hanging on by a thread of camaraderie. 

But Mat sounds so sincere, and even though Mat does just sort of say a lot of things, Tito knows he never says anything he doesn’t mean. They’re not the kind of friends who fight, never were, even before things got distant, and Tito wonders what it means that they’re fighting now. 

“What are you offering?” Tito asks. 

“Honestly?” Mat says. “Anything you want.” 

Tito doesn’t really know what to do with that, so he just says, “Oh.” 

“It’s not—”

“Maybe we should wait until the end of the tournament to talk about this,” Tito says, because this is definitely something he hadn’t expected to hear, even though he maybe should have. 

“Oh,” Mat says, deflating. “I’m sorry.” 

“No, don’t be,” Tito says, shaking his head. “I just— we’re here to win, right?” 

“Always,” Mat says. 

“I should— go,” Tito says. “I’ll see you later for dinner, yeah?” 

“Uh, sure,” Mat says. 

“I mean, if you don’t want—” 

“You should go,” Mat says, kind of forcefully, and Tito’s confused, for a second, until he realizes that Mat’s looking away, and his voice sounds kind of off, and— 

Oh. 

Or— the thing is, Tito’s not really sure what Mat thinks is happening, but he can’t really correct it, because he doesn’t know what he thinks is happening, either, or what they’re talking about, or what he wants, or how to fight for it when he does figure out what he wants. 

He doesn’t want to turn Mat down yet, regardless of what he’s offering, but Mat had reopened some old wounds, and Tito just— he needs some time to figure out how to heal them, is all. 

“Alright,” he says, and then he leaves, not looking back at Mat as he walks away.

…… 

(Here’s another thing Mat and Tito don’t really talk about: the night of the draft. 

Mostly, they don’t talk about it because they were 18, and it had just been a one-time thing, and it doesn’t really matter enough for them to talk about it. 

They’d been drunk, so it had seemed like the best idea in the world, but then they’d sobered up, and realized that they were going to be teammates, and that if they turned it into a thing— 

Well. 

They couldn’t turn it into a thing.

So, it hadn’t been a big deal, then, and it definitely isn’t a big deal now, and it only ever came up during Tito’s first handful of years in New York, when they’d end up falling asleep on the couch together, and Tito would wake up with Mat’s eyelashes right by his, or when they roomed together on the road and would wrestle until a sudden flash of memory hit one of them and they’d wordlessly stop and disentangle themselves. 

Even then, they didn’t really talk about it. 

So it wasn’t a thing then, which means it still isn’t now.)

…… 

Tito and Mitch Marner are very similar people. 

They’re cheerful, upbeat guys, and they’re both smiling more often than they’re not, and if Mitch Marner wasn’t, like, 80% defense mechanisms, 20% person, he could be, like, some Toronto equivalent of Tito. 

So, they get along pretty well. 

“Aus and I were actually gonna come here on our honeymoon,” Mitch says, as they make their way through the gallery the day before their first elimination game. 

“What, this museum?” 

“No, dumbass, Sweden,” Mitch says. “He likes museums, though.” 

“Seriously?” Tito says. 

“Well, he likes… some paintings,” Mitch says. “Not this stuff, really. Modern art.”

“Like, blank canvases that cost a million dollars?” 

“Less weird than that,” Mitch says. “But, yeah. That kind of stuff.” 

Tito shakes his head. “Your husband’s weird.” 

“Yeah,” Mitch says, grossly fond. “I like him.” 

“So why’d you drag me to a museum neither of us wants to be at, if you like your artsy husband so much?” 

“I see him all the time,” Mitch says. “You’ve been out west, we barely even play each other.” 

“We saw plenty of each other last postseason,” Tito says. 

Mitch looks away. “It’s not like we were really talking all that much.” 

“That’s true,” Tito says. “And I was kinda mad at you after.” 

“Understandable,” Mitch says, and then, after a beat, “I feel weird not saying sorry, but—” 

“It’s okay,” Tito says. “You won, we didn’t.” 

“That’s how the game goes,” Mitch says. “I’m still kinda sorry.” 

“Did people get mad at you?” 

Mitch shrugs. “Everyone wants to win, and only one team gets to, right?” he says. “Davo almost didn’t come to the wedding.” 

“He was always gonna come,” Tito says. “He was just being grumpy.” 

“Stromer had to get him there,” Mitch says. 

“It just takes him a while to get over things,” Tito says. 

“Yeah, he can hold a grudge better than you,” Mitch says. “Barz actually skipped the whole thing, so.” 

“What?” Tito says, frowning. “I didn’t know he was invited.”

“We invited everyone,” Mitch says. 

“But you and Barz have always been—” 

“Friends,” Mitch says, cutting Tito off. “I mean, there’s some— tension, or whatever, but. Of course I invited him to the wedding.” 

“And he was a no-show?” 

“He told me he wasn’t coming after the playoffs,” Mitch says. 

“That’s… kinda terrible,” Tito says. 

“I mean, we won a Cup and got married, so someone bailing on our wedding didn’t exactly destroy the whole summer,” Mitch says. “Maybe he had some other reason for not going, who knows.” 

“Maybe,” Tito says, and he thinks,  _ hopefully.  _

“He sent a nice gift, so I can’t really hold it against him,” Mitch says. “Or, I could, I guess, but I don’t.” 

“I don’t think it’d be holding a grudge if you were,” Tito says. 

“Yeah, but,” Mitch shrugs. “I get tired of staying mad at people.”  

…… 

They make it past the quarterfinals, which is nice. 

Tito and Mat don’t talk all that much, but Tito mostly chalks that up to differing schedules. They talk about hockey, and they’re fine to hang out in groups, but most people here seem to have caught on to the fact that things are off there, and no one is keen on forcing them to talk.

It’s weird. 

“He missed you a lot,” Dylan says, out of the blue. 

They’re out for the night as a team, but people have broken off into groups; Mitch is talking with Crouser a few feet ahead of them, and Mat is currently hanging off of Dermott, in that affectionate way he sometimes does when he’s drunk and the weather is nice. 

“Trades suck,” Tito says. 

Dylan snorts. “Speak for yourself,” he says. “I was happy to get out of Arizona.” 

Tito doesn’t call Dylan out on the lie, out of a deeply ingrained, unspoken league-wide agreement, which only Connor McDavid is allowed to break.

“Do you miss the warm weather?” Tito asks.  

“I missed seasons,” Dylan says. “But Barz missed you. A lot.” 

“He’s not great with change,” Tito says. 

“He’s not great with anything he can’t control,” Dylan says. “Which I guess is most people, but especially you.” 

“What are you going on about? Are you high?” 

“Nope,” Dylan says. “But he really didn’t want you to know how much he missed you.” 

Tito shrugs. He’s pretty sure Dylan knows he can’t expect much of a response on that one. 

“I really was happy to be traded,” Dylan says. “It made it easier for me to end a relationship that was already dead, y’know? But I guess for you, it ended one that hadn’t even started, so it’s a different kind of thing.” 

Tito stops in his tracks at that, because what the  _ fuck,  _ Stromer. 

“You don’t know shit about what that team was like before you got there,” Tito says, suddenly very, very angry. “You don’t know shit about  _ anything,  _ so I think you should—”

“Oh, please, I know plenty,” Dylan says, brushing off Tito in a way that’s so typically him, and reminds Tito why most people can’t stand Dylan Strome every bit as much as they love him. “Mat wouldn’t shut up about it. And honestly, he still hasn’t.” 

“Are you trying to get me to apologize for being traded, or something?” Tito says. 

“No,” Dylan says. “But Barzy and I are kind of alike, you know?” 

“You both play hockey,” Tito says. “As far as I can tell, the resemblance ends there.” 

Dylan gives Tito a small half-smile, and Tito might actually punch him. “We both like to read people, and you’re really fucking hard to read.” 

“Maybe you’re just bad at reading people,” Tito says, even though they both know it’s not true. 

“He’s always been scared you didn’t miss him as much,” Dylan says. “That’s why he didn’t talk to you until I made him.”

“What?”

“He was moping about how you were too busy to talk, and I told him that was a self-fulfilling prophecy, and he told me to go fuck myself, so I stole his phone and told him I’d send something weird if he didn’t tell me what to send instead.”

“So he wouldn’t have even talked to me if you hadn’t threatened him,” Tito says. 

“Yeah, because he likes you too fucking much,” Dylan says. 

“How does that make any sense?” 

“Because he’s an idiot,” Dylan says. “And I know how idiots operate, so. You’re welcome.” 

“For what?” Tito says. “Being nosy?” 

“No, for getting you your best friend back,” Dylan says. 

“Well, thanks,” Tito says, not meaning it at all.

“Y’know, before I got traded, I used to think it was weird that you and Barzy were so close,” Dylan says. “Like, in my head, you guys didn’t have anything in common.” 

“You don’t have to be exactly like someone to get along,” Tito says. 

“But that’s the thing,” Dylan says. “You guys kind of are.” 

“How?” 

“You’re just— really determined to be reasonable,” Dylan says. 

Tito doesn’t say,  _ someone has to, when you’re around,  _ but it’s a near-thing. 

…… 

The thing is, three years, theoretically, should be plenty of time to fall out of love with someone. 

It’s harder, when you spent three years with that person at your side, trying to convince yourself you never fell in love with them in the first place.

The problem is, Tito has always known that he— 

Or that Mat— 

Or— 

Come to think of it, Tito’s never really known much of anything about the whole him-and-Mat situation, besides the fact that it’s always been a question. 

He’s not even sure there’s an answer to it. 

…… 

The night before the semi-finals, Tito invites Mat to his room, because he can’t stop shaking, and he knows Mat will come, because he’s a good captain. 

Of course, there’s some irony in the fact that Tito’s using the tourney to forget about his life, but he’d forgotten how nervous tournaments make him, and right now, talking about his life is more appealing than thinking about hockey, so, when Mat shows up, Tito doesn’t bother to beat around the bush.

“You told me Marns didn’t invite you to the wedding,” he says. 

Mat looks momentarily caught off guard, but he takes it in stride, maybe expecting this conversation eventually, or having been expecting it since last summer. “I don’t think I said those exact words.”

“That’s what you made it sound like,” Tito says. “On purpose.” 

Mat shrugs, dismissive and vaguely guilty, but Tito crosses his arms and raises an expectant eyebrow.

Mat relents. “I was having a rough summer, okay?”

“I was the one who lost the cup to him,” Tito says. “Even Davo—”

“It wasn’t about the cup,” Mat says. “Or— it was about a lot of things, I don’t know.”

“Like what?”

“Like— just— that he was getting married?” Mat says. “Didn’t that freak you out?”

“People get married at this age,” Tito says. “It’s not uncommon.”

“But he was getting  _ married,  _ and I haven’t even met anyone I can see myself being with for that long, besides—” he gulps. “And there was gonna be all the Stromer and Davo bullshit, and you were gonna be there, and I just— it freaked me out. I don’t know why, and I don’t know if there is one reason, or just, like, a billion almost-reasons, but it did.” 

“So you just… skipped?” 

“I called him,” Mat says. “I talked to him about it. And I regret it, but I just— I couldn’t.” 

“You regret it?” Tito says, even though that probably shouldn’t surprise him. 

“I wanted to be happy for them,” Mat says. “More than anything. But— you know Marns. He wasn’t happy about me not coming, but it would’ve been worse if I’d shown up and put on a fake-ass happy face the entire time.”

“I guess,” Tito says. “But— they got married.” 

“And I had a poorly-timed quarter life crisis, where I realized that I’ve been carrying around the same feelings crap since I was a teenager,” Mat says. “My friends were getting  _ married,  _ and I was still clinging to people—” he shrugs, almost helpless. “To  _ a  _ person, and spent years jumping between puddles of self-pity to wallow in, even though it was all my fault anyway.” 

“What?” Tito says, kind of lost, because his English is worlds better than it had been once upon a time, but he’s pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to follow this metaphor in French, either. 

“I just— I didn’t know how to not have a best friend,” Mat says. “I didn’t know how to be at a  _ wedding  _ with you, knowing how different things would’ve been, if— y’know.” 

Tito’s not sure if the hypothetical is about the trade or what happened right after, but he softens regardless. He can picture a Mat Barzal regret spiral well enough, even if he wasn’t there for it. 

“It was because of me?” Tito says. 

“It was a lot of things,” Mat says. “You were a consideration. The fact that you were a consideration was also a consideration.” 

“Sounds like you were considering a lot,” Tito says, almost joking, but not quite. “It’s not dumb to— to hang on to things. We all do it, even if it feels… silly, or whatever.” 

“I wish I could unlearn you,” Mat says. “But then every time, it’s like— it tricks me into thinking nothing’s changed, and no time has passed.” 

“Well— I guess, time will always pass, sure,” Tito says, “but maybe things don’t have to change all that much.” 

“We’re different people,” Mat says. 

“Doesn’t mean we don’t still know each other,” Tito says. “It’s not like I don’t still… cling to it a little, too.” 

“You do?” Mat says, his voice going soft, and the air in the room feels thinner, all of a sudden. 

“Of course,” Tito says, and it’s too quiet, and too close to carrying too much, but he doesn’t think it’s a heat of the moment thing, or if it is, it’s not something he’s gonna regret once the moment cools down. 

It sounds like the truth, and feels like the truth, too, and Tito figures that’s what matters here. 

“It’s stupid, how much I still miss you,” Mat says. “I don’t even know if what I’m missing is real, or if it’s just about—” 

“Is this what happens when I leave New York? There’s no one around to pull your head out of your ass?” Tito says, nudging Mat gently, offering him a small smile. 

“Stromer tried,” Mat says. 

“Can’t imagine that helped much at all,” Tito says, and Mat manages to give Tito something close to a grin. “It might be about something else, or it might be about what you think it’s about, but you’ll only drive yourself crazy trying to figure it out, so just— go with your gut.” 

Mat gives Tito a long look, then bites his lip. “I’m trying to be more careful, these days.” 

“You’re always trying to be more careful,” Tito says. “It’s not new, and you’ve never been good at it.” 

“Things can change,” Mat says. 

“They can,” Tito agrees. “But that doesn’t mean they do.” 

“I guess not,” Mat says, and then he gulps. “I should probably go to sleep soon.” 

“You tired?” Tito asks. 

Mat shakes his head. “Not really.” 

“Then— stay,” Tito says. “We can watch TV, try and get our minds off the tournament.” 

“Are you sure?” Mat says. 

“Yeah,” Tito says. “Just like old times, right?” 

The smile that draws out of Mat is still hesitant, but there’s something surer in it this time, like a little bit of some wall came crumbling down and let the corners of Mat’s mouth draw up a little more, and let some of the twinkle in his eye shine through. 

Tito had forgotten Mat’s eyes twinkle like this, when he smiles in a particular kind of way, in a particular kind of light. 

He hopes he doesn’t forget it again, ever.

(And if Tito falls asleep in his clothing, the TV still on, and doesn’t wake up until he feels the mattress shifting— 

And if Tito blinks his eyes open to see Mat climbing off the bed— 

And if Tito pretends to be asleep, so he doesn’t have to say goodbye, or risk asking Mat to stay a little later— 

And if Tito rolls into the place on the bed where Mat had been sitting for god knows how long, desperate to lie there before the warmth trails off after Mat— 

Well, if any of those things are true, Tito is the only one who needs to know about it.)

…… 

Contrary to popular belief, Canada doesn’t just come in and dance over every team that’s not, like, America, Russia, and Sweden. The Czech team’s been getting better and better, and Switzerland and Finland can hold their own too, and just— 

Tito knows that it’s the playing field getting more and more level, but honestly, it mostly just feels like Canada’s getting worse. 

Which, it’s not, but it  _ feels _ like it, and that doesn’t feel great for Tito, and it probably feels especially shitty for Mat, who’s made his name representing this country, and probably takes it personally every time they come home with no gold medal to show for it. 

Not that he’s told Tito this in so many words, but Tito knows him well enough that he doesn’t need words to know it’s true. 

So. 

It’s not easy pulling a win in the semi-finals, is the point. 

They almost don’t, because after Finland gets on the board early, it takes Canada two whole periods to tie it up, and all the while, one of the Finnish guys won’t stop landing hits on Mat, and dirty hits at that. 

Tito knows that it’s this guy’s job, and that it’s nothing personal, but still, it’s just— maybe this is a fucking consolation tournament, but Mat and Tito and the rest of this goddamn team are here to win a fucking gold medal, and maybe it doesn’t matter as much as it did when they were teenagers and the whole country was watching, but Tito figures that if they lose this game, he’s gonna walk away with something to show from this tournament, even if it’s bruised knuckles. 

So, he looks for an in, and when he sees one, he drops gloves. 

It’s a stupid move and everyone knows it, even though Tito’s actually had a couple of fights. He’s not great, and it’s certainly not what he’s known for—he’s under six feet tall and draws smiley faces on his stick tape—but he knows how to land a punch, and sure as hell knows how to take one. 

And he loses, because of course he does, but he gets a few good hits in, and god, they feel  _ good.  _

Then, Dylan nabs the gamewinner shorthanded, and that feels even better. 

Looks like Tito’s gonna have a medal to show for it, after all.

…… 

“You almost lost the game for us,” Mat says, later, as they’re making their way to their respective hotel rooms. They’re the only two people in the hallway, so even though they’re at Tito’s room, he’s lingering in the threshold, not quite ready to close the door, not sure if he wants to invite Mat in.

Tito shrugs. “I didn’t, though.”

“Since when do you fight?”

“It happens,” Tito says. “No one’s happy all the time.”

“It seems like you are,” Mat says. 

Tito bites his lip. “First fight I ever got in was for you, you know.”

“What?” Mat says, doing a double take, but Tito tries to keep his voice casual. 

“Tkachuk was saying shit about you when you had that rough patch, first season I wasn’t there?”

“And that’s why you fought him?”

“I mean, he’s also kind of a dick,” Tito says. “I don’t know how he knew that you were the best way to get under my skin, or if he knew why, but.”

“Wow,” Mat says. “I remember that fight.”

“It was when you weren’t—”

“I watched,” Mat says, then takes a long sip of his drink. “I really don’t think that’s surprising.”

“I guess it’s not,” Tito says, a half a beat too late.

“Were you really that upset about it?”

“About you ghosting on me? Yeah,” Tito says. “I guess he didn’t know that part.”

“So why do you think he chirped you about me?”

Tito takes a second before answering. “You were my best friend and I wasn’t on your team anymore, it’s a pretty easy target.”

“So you missed me,” Mat says. 

“You were my best friend,” Tito says. “And once we weren’t on the same team anymore, you just... stopped.”

“I didn’t mean to do that,” Mat says. “I just—“

“You have your reasons,” Tito says. “I’m just letting you know. I was surprised that you still cared, is all. 

“I didn’t realize,” Mat says. 

“I don’t know if I realized,” Tito says. “I guess I figured it was dumb to think you wouldn’t be upset when I got traded.” 

“It was dumb of me to think you wouldn’t be upset about being traded, just because you’ve been good in Edmonton,” Mat says. 

“I’m not good at being upset,” Tito says. “I try to avoid it.” 

“I know,” Mat says. “It was hard to watch, though.” 

“What was?” 

“You, doing well,” Mat says. “Without me.” 

“Well, okay—” 

“I don’t mean hockey-wise,” Mat says quickly. “I just— I didn’t want to be all sad when you were fine.” 

“I wasn’t fine,” Tito says. “I mean, I was, but— it still kind of sucked. I was homesick, for a while. For New York.” 

“Homesick,” Mat echoes. 

“Yeah,” Tito says. “It was my first team, y’know? They drafted me.” 

“They drafted both of us,” Mat corrects, almost automatic, but he kind of freezes as soon as it’s out of his mouth, this small kind of regret that would be imperceptible to people who aren’t Tito.

“They took us both, then let us play together, and— I missed that a lot,” Tito says. “Feeling like it was— y’know.” 

“Destiny?” Mat says, his eyes fixed firmly on his feet. 

“Something like that, yeah,” Tito says. “We’ve always been good together—”

“What are you getting at?” Mat says quickly, and it takes Tito a second to reorient himself. He’s not sure when he got lost in memories, but right now, it’s kind of overwhelming.

“You asked me, before, who I came here for,” Tito says. 

“And you told me you didn’t come here for anyone,” Mat says. 

“Right,” Tito says. “But that doesn’t mean people can’t make it seem worth it, so— I guess what I’m trying to say is, whatever happens tomorrow, I’m glad I came.” 

“Oh,” Mat says, and there’s something in his voice that Tito can’t place, but it’s not bad, he doesn’t think. “I’m… glad you came, too.” 

“Thanks,” Tito says, even though he’s not really sure why he’s thanking Mat. 

There’s a moment— a big, heavy kind of thing, where the air feels light and loaded and almost like it’s sparkling, but Tito breaks it, because he’s not sure when the right time for this would be, but it’s not now. 

“I should go to sleep,” Tito says. “I’ll see you in the morning, yeah?”

Mat hesitates for a second, like he doesn’t want to let this moment go, but he apparently decides against it, which is fine by Tito, really, because he’s started to accept that there will probably be more moments like this one, so it doesn’t really feel like a last chance at anything. 

“Good night, Tito.” 

“Good night, Mat,” Tito says. 

He closes the door, rests his forehead against it, and takes a deep breath, and a part of him wonders if Mat’s doing the same thing on the other side. He could probably check through the peephole, but he doesn’t, just lets himself linger there for a few long seconds before eventually stepping back into the solitude of his hotel room. 

Once upon a time, he and Mat had gotten used to sharing rooms on the road, because that’s what happened when you were teammates on your ELC’s, and it’s been a while since Tito’s slept in the same room as another person, but sometimes, it still feels weird, having all this space to himself, like a luxury he’s not sure he deserves, one he’s not even sure he wants. 

But he doesn’t really have much of a say in it, so he doesn’t let the suddenly empty space keep him up at night. 

As Tito lies in that special kind of restful that exists before nodding off, he hopes Mat’s finding an easy good night’s sleep. 

…… 

They’re up going into the second period of the gold medal game, but lose control of it, and end up with a deficit by second intermission, and Tito would be worried about the team as a whole, but most of the guys are handling it fine. 

Except for Mat, who Tito hasn’t seen since he left the ice with his hands shaking.

“Hey,” Tito says, “have you seen Barzy anywhere?” 

“I think he’s somewhere with Stromer, freaking out,” Chabby says. “Why?”

“I’m just— y’know. Worried,” Tito says. 

“About the game, or him?” 

“I mean, both?” Tito says. “He’s our captain.” 

“He’ll be fine,” Chabby says. “You know how he gets. He puts a lot on these medals.”

“I know,” Tito says. “We all do.”

Chabby shakes his head. “We all want to win, but to him— it’s a story, y’know? A gold medal is like a happy ending.” 

“But he’ll just be back next year,” Tito says. “Or if he’s not, then he’s in the playoffs. Things don’t end when the tournament ends.” 

“Tell him that,” Chabby says. 

“What does that mean?” 

Chabby bites his lip. “It’s not— okay, if anyone asks, you didn’t hear this from me.” 

“What?” 

“It’s just— Barzy’s put a lot of pressure on this tournament,” Chabby says. “More than usual.”

“Why?” Tito asks, furrowing his brow. “It’s not any different from other years.” 

“Well, you’re here, so it kind of is,” Chabby says. 

Tito blinks, opens his mouth and then closes it, but he doesn’t really know what he can say to that, isn’t even sure if he heard it right, so he just stares at his shoes as Chabby continues.

“He’s worried that he’ll be… letting you down, if we don’t get gold,” Chabby says. “I mean, he’ll be letting himself down too, but that’s old news.” 

“You are harsh,” Tito says. “He knows it’s just… hockey, right?” 

“He wants to keep playing with you,” Chabby says. 

“It can’t just be about that,” Tito says. “Barzy says it’s all about hockey, but he’s full of shit.”

“He’s got a pretty one-track mind,” Chabby says, and that— that sits wrong with Tito, like if all the drama and bullshit and friendship between them has always just been about hockey, he doesn’t want to keep putting in the effort, anymore. 

And of course, Tito cares about hockey more than he cares about anything else, and so does Mat, but that doesn’t mean he only cares about hockey. He’s played with a lot of people, on a lot of teams, with and against a lot of people he’s cared about, but he’d rather have Mat as his best friend and opposition than as his teammate and nothing more. 

Which isn’t gonna happen, because Mat’s always gonna be his friend, but still— 

In a world with no hockey, Tito would try to find his way to Mat, and that thought isn’t exactly new, but it’s new enough that it makes the gears in Tito’s head start turning. 

“Better make this period count, then,” Tito says, and heads out of the locker room and down the tunnel, plastering a genuine, determined, goofy grin to his face, because he knows his role, and he’s gonna make sure they play like they have a fighting chance until the second the final buzzer sounds.

…… 

When Edmonton got knocked out of the playoffs, Tito spent hours on the phone with the various managers and agents who help him deal with sponsorships and contracts, talking about free agency, where he’d potentially be interested in signing, trying to gauge what he wanted, beyond the numbers and the projections and the salary potential. 

“Pretend all that stuff doesn’t exist,” his agent’s assistant had said. “It might matter in the end, but this is a useful exercise.” 

“Well, Montreal, but—”

“No but’s,” she’d said. “Again, it’s an exercise. Most Quebec players will say that one.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah,” she said. “A lot of hometown pride, and guys have family there— everyone kind of wants to play at home, right?” 

Tito thought about that, and he thought about what home has been to him over the years, and he thought about the places and the people he’d like to go back to, in his wildest dreams. 

…… 

The team splits up before Tito even has a chance to process it, Marns already tucked under Matthews’ arm, Dylan off somewhere clogging Connor McDavid’s mailbox, or maybe tracking down DeBrincat, because he really had taken the whole Canada-USA rivalry all too seriously and didn’t talk to any Americans at all. A lot of guys are migrating back to NHL alliances, reconnecting with the teammates at the tournament they’ve been playing against, but the only other guys from Edmonton here didn’t make it to the medal rounds, and they’ve already kicked off their offseason vacations in other European countries. 

Usually that’d leave Tito feeling aimless, but right now, he knows exactly who he wants to track down, so it’s not long before he finds himself outside Mat’s hotel room, knocking on the door and nervously tapping his foot as he waits for Mat to answer.

Mat doesn’t seem all that surprised when he opens the door. “Hi.” 

“Hey,” Tito says. “Can I come in?” 

Wordlessly, Mat steps aside, and Tito thinks about how this room looks a lot different now than it had on that first night; it’s empty, save for the two of them, and they’re both a different kind of exhausted. 

A month isn’t really that long for a tournament, all things considered. 

It also kind of is.

“I once read somewhere that bronze medalists are happier than silver medalists,” Tito says. “When you win bronze, you’re just happy to get on the podium, but when you get silver, it feels like you missed out on gold.” 

“You’ve told me that one before,” Mat says. 

“Really?” Tito says.

“Yes,” Mat says. “So many times.” 

“Whoops,” Tito says. 

“S’okay,” Mat says. “I’ve known you for a long time, I’ve probably also heard you say it to other people.”

“Oh,’ Tito says, deflating a little. “Sorry, I guess?” 

“It’s kind of your signature thing,” Mat says, and he gives Tito a small half-smile, like he’d be amused if the circumstances were different. “There are only so many different bright sides to find, when you lose.” 

“Silver only feels like losing,” Tito says. 

“If I could talk myself out of my feelings, I would, and we both know it,” Mat says, and Tito chuckles. 

“Fair enough,” Tito says. “Still. Second place is pretty great.” 

“Third would feel better, though,” Mat says. “First would feel better than both of them.” 

There’s a beat, a long, heavy thing where Tito doesn’t really know what to say, but he’s pretty sure Mat’s trying to string together a thought, so he doesn’t bother trying to come up with any words to fill the space. Mat doesn’t think before he speaks that often, so if he is, he’s probably gonna say something big, or complicated, or both. 

“Chabby thinks I was trying to win you a gold medal to get you to resign in Long Island,” is what comes out of Mat’s mouth, after a second. 

Tito blinks. “Were you?” 

“No,” Mat says, and then he runs a hand over his face. “Not consciously. I mean, it crossed my mind, but I knew it was dumb.” 

“I thought I was the one who promised you a medal,” Tito says. 

“Right,” Mat says. “And also, it’s just dumb.” 

Tito chooses his next words carefully. “For someone who talks a lot, you’re really bad at saying what you need to say.” 

“Are you any better?” Mat says. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“I talk around my shit, you bury yours under, like, mountains of positive thinking,” Mat says. “No one’s good at saying what they need to say.” 

“Well, I don’t have anything I need to say right now,” Tito says. 

“Then neither do I,” Mat says, and Tito can hear the challenge in his voice. He’d forgotten what Mat’s like after a loss, honest in a way he usually isn’t, and a little bitter just past the edge of honesty. 

Still, Tito lingers in the silence before he speaks again. “I was really mad at you for not talking to me after I got traded.” 

“And I want you to choose Long Island,” Mat says, and then he takes a breath, which is kind of a huff, and kind of a sigh. “Guess that wasn’t so hard to say.”

“Guess not.”

“I’d say I’m sorry, but,” Mat shrugs. “You know I am.” 

“It’s nice to hear anyway,” Tito says. 

Mat bites his lip. “It still feels like our team.” 

“The tournament’s barely over,” Tito says. 

“Not this one,” Mat says.  “I meant the Islanders.” 

“Oh,” Tito says, and then, after a second of hesitation, “It really feels like it wasn’t that long ago.” 

“It wasn’t, kind of,” Mat says. 

“A lot’s happened since I played there.” 

“A lot can happen in a short period of time.” 

“Guess so,” Tito says. 

Mat looks at Tito, maybe for the first time since they’ve started talking, and it’s just a sideways flicker of his eyes, but it still leaves Tito feeling like a puzzle that Mat knows exactly how to solve. 

“I had this image,” Mat says, “In my head, of us, in the locker room, gold medals hanging around our necks.” 

“That would’ve been a nice ending to this story,” Tito says.

Mat shakes his head. “Not an ending,” he says. “A beginning.” 

“Starting out on a high note?” Tito says, and he knows his voice isn’t betraying anything right now, but he’s bizarrely convinced that Mat can feel the butterflies in his stomach, which doesn’t make sense, except it’s Mat, and it’s Tito, so it kind of does.

“It just would’ve been a nice moment,” Mat says. 

“Any moment can be nice, if you look at it the right way,” Tito says. “We don’t get the things we want because of nice moments.”

“Sometimes we just don’t get the things we want at all,” Mat says. “Sometimes the things we want get traded to Edmonton.” 

“Sometimes the things we want stop talking to us until Dylan Strome intervenes,” Tito says. 

“He told you about that, eh?” 

Tito nods. “I can’t believe you got mopey enough that Stromer called you out on it. Of all people, really.” 

“Self pity was so easy,” Mat says. “I really felt the whole star-crossed lovers thing, y’know? Cheated by fate, or the NHL, or something.” 

“Fate and the NHL are two very different things,” Tito says. 

“Whatever,” Mat says. “I was 23 and in love with my best friend, and then my best friend got traded, so, like. It kinda felt like the end of the world.” 

“So you gave up on us,” Tito says, before he can stop himself, and he doesn’t know where it comes from, but it feels like something clicking into place— why he’d been so scared to be angry, and so quick to forgive as soon as he got a shaving of friendship back. 

“I tried to, yeah,” Mat says, his voice a little quiet. “It didn’t quite work.” 

“It’s hard to fall out of love with your best friend,” Tito says. 

Mat sits with that for a second, and Tito lets him, watches his face, tries to look at Mat the way Mat looks at him, but Mat’s a much harder puzzle, and Tito’s hands are a little clumsier.

Still, he tries.  

“I guess— a gold medal wouldn’t have made a difference,” Mat says. “You’re not even a free agent for a month and a half, places aren’t allowed to make offers yet, so it’s not like you can make any promises about shit.” 

“Not hockey-wise, no,” Tito says. “I’ve gotten a few reliable tips, about Long Island.” 

“Plus a million unreliable tips,” Mat says. “All the message boards say they’re gonna make a big push.” 

Tito gives Mat a look. “I can’t  _ believe _ you read message boards about trade rumors for the league you play in.”

“I’m allowed to have hobbies,” Mat says. 

“Do you even know what a hobby is? Because that’s not a hobby,” Tito says. “That’s just you being stupid on the internet.”

“Being stupid on the internet is arguably a universal hobby,” Mat says. “It’s fine, most of it’s bullshit, or just really obvious. Mostly I just like to see the crazy shit.” 

“You’ve got a problem,” Tito says. 

“I’ve got a lot of problems,” Mat says. “I don’t read posts with my name in them, though, and I’d probably kill it if I ever made a fantasy team.” 

“Are we even allowed to play fantasy hockey?” 

“As long as we don’t put money on it, it’s legal, I think,” and when he sees Tito’s mildly horrified face, he laughs. “Relax, I don’t actually.” 

“I’m not sure if I believe you,” Tito says. 

“Well, I’m not gonna waste my breath convincing you,” Mat says. “But— you make sense in New York, I think. And it’s not just me.” 

“Mat—” 

“I know it’s not just about that,” Mat says. “And you can’t just choose a team because I miss you, or because you might miss me—” 

“Of course I miss you,” Tito says. 

“I’m just— I’m scared, that if you play somewhere else—” 

“I’ve been playing somewhere else for three years,” Tito says. 

“You didn’t choose to stop playing with me, though,” Mat says. “And just— some part of me thinks that I’ll feel less stupid about still being like this after three years— Marns is  _ married,  _ and I’m hung up on my old roommate, okay? So maybe, if you come back to Long Island, it’ll be like you were always gonna come back.” 

“But that’s not---”

“I know that’s not how it works,” Mat says, kind of snapping. “I just can’t fucking stop missing you, even when you’re right here—” 

Tito cuts him off with a kiss, because— 

Well. 

Because it’s been years in the making, for one, and because he can tell that if Mat keeps going he’s gonna talk himself into an oblivion of confessions that neither of them is quite ready to hear, and because Mat seems determined to brush off every confession Tito makes, and because Tito is tired of Mat acting like this is some one-sided thing he’s built up in his head. 

Which Tito gets, really, because feelings are fucking weird—they come and go and overwhelm you at the strangest moments—but right now, Tito’s not in the mood for tearful, scared confessions and shaky voices. He knows what Mat wants, and he knows what he wants, and he knows it’s the same fucking thing, so he’s gonna do what he usually does and get Mat out of his own head. 

And they’re kissing, and it’s good, and it’s  _ great,  _ and it feels like an ending and a beginning and like destiny, all at once.

And—  

And maybe Tito doesn’t want to say, with words, how much he understands how scary it is to want someone when you love them in a lot of different ways. Maybe he doesn’t want to think about how scary romance is when you’re a romantic person, and how hard it is to stay grounded when your head won’t stop flying into fantasies, and how longing really doesn’t make any sense at all, half the time. 

But, then again, maybe he should.  

“Wanna hear a secret?” Tito says, barely moving away from Mat. They’re both breathing heavily, and Mat lets out this shaky exhale that tints Tito’s romantic thoughts a dark, silky scarlet at the edges, but he pushes that aside for later. 

“What?” Mat says, sounding something between dazed and wrecked, and Tito’s not sure how he’s gonna stay grounded, about this one. 

“I was kind of happy we won silver,” Tito says, running a bruised knuckle over Mat’s cheek and giving him a small smile. “I think that’s a nice beginning in its own way.” 

“Why?” 

“Means I still owe you a win,” Tito says, and then he leans in again, this time because he can’t stand to spend another second not kissing Mat. 

And he’s shaking, in this beautiful kind of terrified way, and he’s pretty sure he came into this with every intention of talking about this in a reasonable, rational fashion, but, like, fuck reasonable, he’s kissing Mat for the first time since they were 18, and Mat’s kissing him back like he’ll never be able to get enough of it. 

Tito, long ago, had made his peace with the fact that if he and Mat ever worked shit out, it wouldn’t feel like a love story. Mat’s always been warm and comfortable and easy, even when he’s not, and Tito had thought that nothing could ever feel like too much with Mat, not anymore, except Tito feels like he has wings, like he believes in love at first sight and destiny and soulmates and a thousand other things that used to be overly romantic crap, and were right up until the moment their lips met. 

He’s not sure if it’s him, or Mat, or both of them, or if this is just what it’s like to really be in love, but whatever it is, it feels really fucking right. 

…… 

In the end, it’s not a storybook. 

It’s a delayed flight to BC for Mat’s birthday, and Skype calls made on bad wifi, and missed calls and dropped connections and trying to figure out what they are and who they tell. It’s deadlines that don’t match up, and training schedules and time differences and still not being great at talking about the hard stuff, and it’s wanting to promise each other the world but being afraid, because it’s new, and it’s a little bit like getting to know each other all over again. 

But, at the same time— 

It’s Tito making a choice, and Tito taking a chance, and Tito finding every other reason in the world to sign a contract with New York, but when it comes down to it and the pen is in his hand, it’s Mat that’s on his mind. 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline:
> 
> 2019: NYI signs Tito to a 4 year extension, after making the playoffs but getting knocked out in Round 1.
> 
> 2020: the Islanders lose in the Eastern Conference Final. Mat signs a his contract extension in July, 6-8 years, probably. Later that summer, the Islanders, the Oilers, and the Coyotes engage in a three-way trade (note: this was started before Lamoriello was named President of Hockey Ops and the Snow Era seemed endless okay) which sends Tito and Josh Bailey to Edmonton, Edmonton sends Leon Draisaitl to Arizona (rumored to be motivated because of a nasty breakup with Connor McDavid that lead to a drop-off in their on ice chemistry), and Arizona sends Dylan Strome and Kyle Capobianco to New York, along with picks/prospects to level it all out.
> 
> 2021: Isles miss the playoffs; Edmonton gets knocked out in the second round.
> 
> 2022: the Edmonton Oilers are the Western Conference champions, but the Leafs win the cup. Many people are supposedly delighted that there is a Canada-Canada matchup for the Stanley Cup Final. Later that summer, Mitch and Auston get married, and the Stanley Cup is not present for the reception, nor does William Nylander perform the ceremony. William Nylander is unhappy about both of these developments.
> 
> 2023: The Islanders miss the playoffs, and the Oilers get knocked out early on. Mat is the first player announced to the Worlds roster, and is named team captain as well. Tito’s four-year contract extension is up, and since he started in the NHL in the 2016-2017 season, he is a UFA at the end of the 2022-2023 season. After a successful few seasons with Edmonton, he is likely to be courted by many teams in need of a goal-scoring defensively sound forward, both because of his skill and his flexibility (wing or centre, PP and/or PK, can be a top 6 forward or serve a dependable third line role.)
> 
>  
> 
> IRL, IIHF Worlds hosts have only been announced through 2022, but I saw that Sweden put in a bid for 2023 and figured this is fanfiction so I can do what I want. I know they usually have two different locations or whatever, but this story is 12k of feelings, and I didn’t want to get any more bogged down in logistics, because we’re at the limit of my recreational knowledge of international ice hockey.
> 
> The roster for this team is TRULY the thing of my fantasies. It’s mildly realistic, but also blatantly caters to my particular preferences, as informed by Julia as well: Mat, Tito, Chabby, Mitch, and Dylan all appear in the fic, and I believe Travis Dermott and Lawson Crouse are mentioned. We also have Nolan Patrick, TK, Mikey and Nate, Chych, Tyson Jost, PLD, and Carter Hart as characters I kept around in case I needed an extra body. Other Americans include Zach Werenski, Kieffer Bellows, Alex DeBrincat, and Clayton Keller.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> [tumblr](lottswrites.tumblr.com)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] count your corners, cut the rest](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17546315) by [ofjustimagine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofjustimagine/pseuds/ofjustimagine)




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